


Good Things Come to Those Who Wait (But Dean's Never Been Patient)

by indigowendigo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:18:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigowendigo/pseuds/indigowendigo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strange things have been happening to Dean--strange in that they are <i>good</i> things, and good things don’t just happen to Dean Winchester.  In fact, they’re a little too good for his own comfort.  Dean is familiar with the saying “Never look a gift horse in the mouth," but he’s also familiar with the story of the Trojan Horse, and how much <i>not</i> looking a suspicious gift horse in the mouth can screw you over.  Good things don’t happen to Dean, so he reasons that this—whatever is going on—can’t be good.</p><p>Or, in which Castiel resolves to help Dean from afar, and Dean resolves to get to the bottom of things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Things Come to Those Who Wait (But Dean's Never Been Patient)

**Author's Note:**

> Just a drabble. Sort of my take on the spoilers that Cas goes grocery shopping. I've also posted this on my tumblr, feel free to check it out: indigowendigo.tumblr.com
> 
> Enjoy! Feedback is always welcome.

It starts off with a hideous afghan, a mess of oranges and browns and greens all knit together in one ungodly throw blanket. Dean finds it thrown over his bed, and quickly finds out that, as ugly as it is to look at, it is probably the warmest blanket he’s ever experienced. It’s not even scratchy like afghans usually are; the yarn feels as soft as silk. He recalls complaining to Sam about how his room was drafty, and figures Sam bought it for him. Not one to seek out that emotional confrontation/mushy gushy crap, Dean doesn’t ask questions; he just makes Sam’s favorite breakfast the next morning as a thank you, and judging my Sam’s contented silence, he figures it’s enough.

———————

A week later, the light bulb in his bedroom cops out. He makes a mental note to replace it, but knowing himself, figures he’ll probably be living in the darkness for a few days at least. Later that day—or night, technically—he’s getting ready to go to bed, and out of habit, flicks on the light switch. He remembers seconds after he does this, but he’s surprised to find that the light bulb flashes on, bright as ever. He figures it must’ve had some juice left in it after all, and that he didn’t need a new bulb. If he had looked in his trash can, he would’ve seen a dead light bulb, along with the packaging for a brand new one—but he didn’t.

———————

Two weeks from the light bulb incident, Dean and Sam return from a routine hunt—demon terrorizing a neighborhood two towns over—exhausted and in need of some serious relaxation. Sam collapses on the couch and turns on the TV—a new addition that Dean insisted on—while Dean walks to the kitchen to grab them a couple of beers. When he opens the fridge, the box of Budweiser that they’d stocked up on is empty.

“Goddamnit,” Dean grumbles, kicking the nearest chair. He’d been looking forward to a refreshing beer the entire ride home—he’d stopped using alcohol to drown out his nightmares a while ago, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t enjoy a nice cool one every once in a while. In fact, sharing a beer after a successful hunt had become pretty routine for Sam and Dean. He walks back to the living room, still moping.

“We’re outta beer,” he mutters. “Want something else?” Sam smirks at Dean’s obvious disgruntlement, and asks for a water—for the first time in their lives, they’ve actually got a stock of bottled water. Dean was fine drinking from the tap, but Sam protested that it was unhealthy or something—as if drinking tap water was more dangerous than what they did on a regular basis. When Dean gets to the kitchen and swings open the fridge, he’s surprised to find that the box of Budweiser has two beers left. He stands there in stunned silence, trying to figure out where the hell the beer came from. Ultimately, he chalks it up to his own negligence, and figures he’s so weary from the hunt that he hadn’t noticed the beers. 

It isn’t until the next day, when his mind is well rested enough, that he begins to wonder. He realizes that, ever since they moved into the Bat Cave (the name stuck), strange things have been happening to him. Strange in that they are _good_ things, and good things don’t just happen to Dean Winchester. In fact, they’re a little too good for his own comfort; a blanket when he’s cold, a fresh beer when he wants it…hell, now that he thinks about it, light bulbs don’t just recharge themselves. His first thought is that it’s Sam’s doing, but then he remembers that Sam was in the living room the entire time he was getting the beer. Dean is familiar with the saying “Never look a gift horse in the mouth”, but he’s also familiar with the story of the Trojan Horse, and how much _not_ looking a suspicious gift horse in the mouth can screw you over. Good things don’t happen to Dean, so he reasons that this—whatever is going on—can’t be good. He decides he’s going to get to the bottom of things.

———————

Dean and Sam alternate grocery runs, and they buy weekly. This way, Sam reasoned, they can have fresh food all the time. It’s Dean’s week to buy, but he purposely forgets. By Friday, the fridge is empty, and he’s got an angry Sam on his hands.

“You said you went shopping!” Sam accuses.

“No, I said I had it covered. But then I forgot to go shopping,” Dean replies, feigning guilt and flashing an apologetic grin.

“Well then what are we going to do for dinner?” Sam demands, clearly irritated.

“I don’t know…” Dean replies, then clears his voice and speaks a little louder. “I wish we had the stuff to make burgers!”

“We _would_ , if you had remembered to get the damn groceries!” Sam growls in frustration.

“You mean the ground meat, the buns, the lettuce, some American cheese, and more ketchup? Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Dean agrees easily. “I suck.”

“Are you okay?” Sam asks, staring at Dean as if his brother has grown another head. “You’re acting all kinds of weird, Dean…”

“I’m fine!” Dean responds enthusiastically. “Trust me, Sammy. Why don’t you read a book or something,” he suggests.

“What about dinner?” Sam persists.

“Trust me, I’ve got it covered. For real this time,” Dean assures him. And then, like the grown man he is, Dean proceeds to hide in the kitchen’s pantry. He leaves it open a crack so he can peer out, determined to find out who it was that had been doing him favors for the past few weeks. About twenty minutes in, when he’s considering giving up, he hears the distinct sound of grocery bags crinkling. He swings open the pantry door with a triumphant shout, his knife in hand in case whatever it is is unfriendly. He’s shocked to see a tan trench coat layered over a rumpled suit, and the windswept hair of the man he’d been praying to for months.

“Cas?” Dean asks, incredulously. Castiel freezes, his eyes wide and his face, despite its otherwise neutral expression, flushed slightly.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas offers shyly, awkwardly placing the bag of groceries on the table. He says nothing else, as if he hasn’t been missing for months. Dean’s legs seem to move forward on their own accord, and before he can stop himself he has his arms wrapped around the angel in a tight embrace.

“Where the hell have you been?” Dean demands refusing to pull away just yet. He barely resists the urge to bury his face in Cas’s neck, to confess how badly he’s missed him.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” is Cas’s only response, his voice leaving puffs of breath against Dean’s ear. “I was hoping you wouldn’t see me.”

“It was you, wasn’t it? This whole time; the blanket, the beer, everything,” Dean counters, finally pulling back. He straightens the lapels of Cas’s overcoat, and his hands linger, clenched in the familiar material. “Why didn’t you stay?” he asks, his throat feeling dry and a familiar prickling forming behind his eyes. Damn it all, he was not going to tear up in front of Cas.

“I…I couldn’t,” Cas confesses quietly. “I still can’t,” he amends sadly.

“Well why not?” Dean snaps angrily. Sam’s voice drifts in from the living room, asking Dean who he’s talking to. Dean knows that Sam would want to know Cas is here, that he’s okay, but Dean can’t help but be a little selfish; he waves off Sam’s question, saying he’s on the phone with a pizza delivery place.

“I just can’t, Dean,” Cas growls lowly, but no traces of anger are to be found in his tone. He seems, if anything, sad.

“Why not?” Dean asks, and the desperation in his voice sounds pathetic even to him, like a petulant child, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when he finally haa Cas back. Not when Cas is planning on leaving him again.

“It’s complicated, Dean,” Cas pleads, pleads for him to leave it be and let him leave. 

“Don’t you dare, Cas” Dean growls, tightening his grip on Cas’s coat and tugging him in so they stand nearly chest to chest. “Don’t you dare treat me like I don’t deserve to know where the hell you’ve been for the past few months. You show up, beat the crap out of me, and then leave? If you couldn’t come back, you could’ve at least called for Christ’s sake,” Dean accuses. Being this close to Cas, he can feel every breath the angel takes, can count the different shades of blue in his eyes—if he were into that sort of poetic crap. 

“Please, Dean,” Cas murmurs. “Please, don’t ask.”

“It’s the angel tablet, isn’t it?” Dean guesses, letting go of Castiel’s coat, and taking a half step backwards, so he can look into the angel’s eyes without looking down.

“Yes,” Cas finally admits. “But please, Dean, I can’t talk about it. Not until I’ve…” his mouth snaps shut, as if remembering where he is and who he’s with.

“Until you’ve what, Cas?” Dean prompts gently.

“I can’t say, Dean,” Cas reiterates sorrowfully. “I’m sorry. You deserve honesty, you deserve the truth. But I can’t give you that, not yet; that’s why I resolved to stay away.”

“But you haven’t stayed away,” Dean accuses, deciding to relent for now on the topic of the angel tablet. “You keep coming back. Why?” Dean asks, holding the angel’s gaze, searching for some sort of answer. Cas gives a small smile.

“I told you, Dean, I’m always listening to your prayers. I will never stop watching over you,” he confides. Dean takes a moment to look at him—really look at him. His face is paler than he remembers, and there are dark circles under his eyes. He looks like he’s going to fall down from exhaustion—yet he still went out of his way to do favors for Dean. His anger begins to ebb away, leaving behind a powerful feeling of fondness for the angel. He resolves not to berate him with any more questions, but he still refuses to allow him to leave. Not yet.

“Stay for the night,” Dean pleads, his voice soft and his tone low. “Just for the night,” he insists when Cas looks like he’s going to protest. “If you still need to leave tomorrow…well, I won’t be happy about it, but I won’t try to stop you, either,” Dean promises. Cas looks up at him with heavy eyes, and a smile grows on his mouth.

“You say that as if you _could_ stop me,” Cas says, and it sounds like a challenge, a hint of pride in his voice. Dean lets out a bark of laughter.

“Bet your ass, I could,” Dean counters with a cheeky grin. “So is that a yes?” he asks hopefully. Cas makes a show of looking put-upon, and sighs dramatically.

“I suppose one night will not impede my mission too greatly,” Cas concedes, still smiling softly. A warm rush of affection courses through Dean’s veins, but it threatens to turn cold as he realizes that, come tomorrow, he might not see Cas for weeks. He needs Cas to come back, needs him to know just how _needed_ he is to Dean, how important he is. He’s been holding back so long, but he’s finally had enough; Dean Winchester is not in the business of denying himself pleasure, not when life is full of pain. He fists his hands in Cas’s coat once more, but his tug is gentle, merely guiding Castiel close to him as he angles his head down and presses his lips to the angel’s. He feels the smaller man freeze, can practically feel the surprise and confusion radiating off him in waves, but eventually Cas brings his hands up to rest on Dean’s shoulders and he reciprocates. Their kiss starts soft, but it quickly turns desperate as Dean tightens his hold on Cas’s waist, and Cas’s hands find their way to Dean’s hair. Dean begins to pull back, sucking gently on Cas’s lower lip before pulling away completely; their foreheads rested against each other, their noses pressed together.

“Dean, what…” Cas’s voice, more gravelly than usual, breaks the silence. “What was that?” he asks, his voice laced with confused awe.

Dean silences him with another kiss—quicker this time, just a press of lips. “I thought we agreed no more questions tonight,” he breathes against Cas’s lips.

“I guess we did,” Cas agrees quietly, pulling away slightly only to readjust himself so he has his arms wrapped around Dean’s waist, and his chin resting on his shoulder. You would think that the kiss would be more jarring for Dean, having never kissed another man before, but it’s the hug that truly dumbfounds him. Cas has never been one to seek out physical comfort. He’s like Dean; he would accept it easily enough, but he never felt like he deserved it. A feeling of satisfaction, overwhelming happiness, and god, pride, sweeps through Dean as he realizes that Cas needs this—needs him. He wraps his arms around Cas’s shoulders and holds on until Cas pulls back some minutes later. 

“Come on,” Dean says, grabbing Cas’s hand. “We should probably clue Sam in that you’re here,” he says, sweeping a thumb over Cas’s knuckles before tugging him gently towards the living room.


End file.
